


Hairpin

by Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion



Series: Angsty Silvergifting (and Other Angsty Celebrimbor Things) [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, References to violence but no graphic descriptions, Silverfisting, silvergifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion/pseuds/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion
Summary: Tyelpë finds a hairpin in his cell.





	Hairpin

“Annatar?”

Mairon blinks, startled. He has not heard Tyelpë address him first, not in a long while. “Yes, Tyelpë?”

“I… I pace around my cell sometimes, and…”

Mairon is barely listening, charmed by that soft, faint, slightly hoarse voice. How come it can still touch a string in his heart after so much time of disunion?

“...and then I found this beautiful little hairpin!” Tyelpë holds out his finding, excited. The hairpin is of very delicate work, Mairon’s own, golden with a crystal on top. “Is it yours?” Tyelpë’s hand shakes, perhaps because of some injury or hunger or nervous exhaustion; it does not seem to be out of fear. Visibly worried about the safety of his prize, Tyelpë supports the pin with his other hand to make sure he does not drop it.

Mairon looks away for a moment. How can he help feeling touched at such a lovely action?

“Yes, Tyelpë, it is mine, thank you,” he even allows himself a small smile as he takes the pin. “Do your hands always shake like that?”

Tyelpë blinks, as if surprised. “Shake?..” he mumbles and brings a hand very close to his face to look at it attentively, as if he was studying something foreign and strange. “Shakes, yes… I don’t know.”

Mairon frowns, overcome by a new concern. “Tyelpë? Do you need to put things so near your eyes to be able to see them?”

“Yes,” the Elf replies in a casual tone, as if it was nothing unusual.

“Cannot you see me well?” Mairon inquires.

“I cannot.”

The Maia does not like to believe that. “Then how do you know it is I the moment I come in?” he asks suspiciously.

“I feel it,” Tyelpë says and presses a hand to his chest, over his heart. “Something right here says, ‘Annatar is here,’ and I believe; it is never wrong.”

Mairon sighs, slightly touched by guilt that he should not be feeling, for he is in the right here, he is the one betrayed, is he not? Still, he brings himself down to sit on the mat next to Tyelpë. “When did it start, with your vision?” he demands.

Tyelpë purses his lips; he does not want to answer. “I, I do not have an understanding of time,” he confesses in a quieter voice.

Right; of course he doesn’t, it is always dark here, and his time isn’t in any way regulated. Tyelpë does not even have a consistent sleeping schedule, for his sleep can be interrupted by his captor any moment.

“Then what happened, can you tell me?” asks Mairon.

“My head hurt very much, and then it was dark, and then this,” Tyelpë mutters, looking down. 

It is unclear if he really does not remember how Mairon seized him by the hair and banged his head at the wall in a fit of rage. The Maia thought himself fully justified then, for this Elf, this miserable creature defied him -  _ again  _ \- and therefore deserved all the consequences. It does not feel so right now. Mairon realizes, fully for the first time, that some things cannot be reversed. He has been telling himself, whenever a doubt would creep into his mind, that it was temporary, what he was doing. Soon, Tyelpë would give up, would take his side or at least give up the Rings, and then, things would be different. He would keep Tyelpë in a nice room, with a bed instead of this mat, would feed him well and love him in all ways possible. He would make Tyelpë happy again.

Well, he could still do all that, but now it was unclear if he could restore Tyelpë’s good eyesight. Perhaps Tyelpë would never be able to return to his craft, all because of Mairon’s uncontrolled anger.

“How did you find the pin, darling?” he asks, to distract himself from those thoughts rather than hear Tyelpë’s answer.

“I told you, I stepped on it,” the Elf pouts.

Mairon looks at Tyelpë’s feet; there aren’t any shoes. “Did you hurt your foot, love?”

“I don’t know,” Tyelpë shrugs. “Something always hurts. I cannot always tell where. Maybe I hurt my foot.”

“I’ll send a healer to see you, darling,” Mairon suddenly promises, surprising even himself.

“I am fine,” Tyelpë contradicts gently. “Better send one to see yourself.”

“What? Why?” Mairon blinks, puzzled.

“I don’t know,” Tyelpë puts his hand on his chest again, “ _ this _ here says that you are unwell.”

Mairon cannot take it anymore. “I will see you tomorrow,” he drops as he rises before rushing out of the cell.

“I don’t know when is tomorrow,” Tyelpë sighs sadly. 

Maybe tomorrow is very soon? Agitated, the Elf gets up and starts pacing, carefully covering every bit of the floor with the soles of his feet. He hopes to find another hairpin so that Annatar is nice to him again.


End file.
